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Did you know that even gods dream? They do. Last night, I had a fantastically strange dream that I’d like to share with the internet, so that maybe some rich benefactor will get behind it and grant me all of its beautiful unconscious wishes.

My dream last night opened as many of them do, with me beating up a member of the British Parliament.

Eat my fist, Bingham of Cornhill.

After I wipe my hands of that limey sonofabitch, I find myself sitting in the green room of Jimmy Kimmel’s studio in Los Angeles, California, waiting to be interviewed. I sit quietly, repeating my pre-television mantra: “don’t say the f-word. don’t way the f-word,” when the door opens and Olivia Munn, whom I’ve spent a lot of time blogging and tweeting about recently, walks in and sits in one of the couches across from mine, typing something on her cell phone. My giant bear/pterodactyl hybrid growls and I put a calming on his neck. Even though I’m bitter that she ruined my “Get a Celebrity to Tweet at Me” experiment, she still seems pretty badass, and in my dreams I’m not inhibited by such silly things as “Cripplingly Low Self-Esteem,” or “Respecting the Tastes of Others,” so I approached her, employing my most tried and true pickup line.

“Hey, my name is Kyle.”

“Oh, hey! I’m Olivia,” she says, putting her phone in her lap.

“I know who you are, you’re kind of famous.” I stand proudly, making no effort to conceal the erection that has risen within my parachute pants.

She laughs softly and looks up at me with amorous eyes.

“Here let me give you my number,” I say, fumbling for a piece of paper. My first instinct is to give this woman a dollar with my number written on it, but in my dream I think no wait I might need that for parking and start looking for something else to write my number on. Believe me, though; If I met Olivia Munn in real life and my choices were “Park really far away” or “Give this woman my number,” my choice would always be “Park really far away”–unless I’m parking in Gotham City. That place is riddled with crime…or should I say Riddler-ed with crime?! [Editor’s Note: You owe DC Comics $6,000.]

Make that $10,000

As I struggle to find a piece of paper, Olivia reaches into her purse and gives me her number on a tiny piece of paper. I reach into my wallet and pull out an entire newspaper from the 1960’s. I write my number on it and the URL to my website (So she knows I’m more than a pretty face) and hand it to her. The sight of my telephone number with “IronKyle XoXoXXXSex” written beneath it sets her womanly loins ablaze. She then invites me up to her room.

Sure!

We go up the elevator, having delightful comic banter all the while. Mainly just me with the comic part and her with the banter. I’m always the funny one in my dreams. We reach the door to her room and walk in.

“I’m going to shower. I’ll be right out. You can watch TV or use my computer or whatever.” She motions around the room, smiles, and walks into the bathroom.

I immediately check the mini-fridge for my power-drink–whiskey. There’s none in there. That’s fine, I think to myself, One time Brett Favre had to play a game without his usual pounding of a full flask of whiskey before hand and they still won. They just relied on the ground game. I would rely on my ground game–the easy stuff: Dick jokes, self-deprecating humor, self-defecating humor. I’ll be fine, I think.

All of a sudden, a strange sensation starts to emanate from my genitals. I pull the waist band of my pants forward and to see that my penis is made of liquid metal. Just for kicks, I turn my penis into a hammer, then Jimmy Fallon, then an even bigger penis. I get an epiphany and turn my liquid metal penis into a flask of whiskey and drink up. The whiskey tastes like it came from a penis. It was probably urine.

Olivia pokes her head out of the bathroom door, hair down, towel on.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of you watching TV out here by yourself. Would you like to join me?”

I turn my penis into a tiny Brett Favre. He looks at me, winks, and gives me a reassuring nod. It’s game time.

"Rock 'n roll, good buddy."

“Absolutely,” I say, still looking at my penis. My voice now sounds like Optimus Prime’s.

Just as I enter the bathroom, Olivia turns and removes her towel. I then hear a horrible noise from all around me. It sounds like the ghost of a duck is screaming at me from the under-world.

I awaken to find that I’ve received a text message from my friend Lanny that reads “Do you like websites?” I curse Lanny and roll over, desperately hoping to pick up where I left off in the dream.